


ROXANNE!

by singswithtrees



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, M/M, loud serenading ensues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:26:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9389108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singswithtrees/pseuds/singswithtrees
Summary: Modern-day human AU--Dimo's a travelling busker who plays outside a coffee shop every day, and Maxim is a barista.  Hijinks ensue.





	

Routine was only useful, Dimo mused to himself, if you could throw it off once in a while, change the pattern to make people notice something that they might not otherwise have seen. And for the last two weeks, he’d been carefully constructing one. He was never anywhere for long–a month, maybe two, but then it was off to the Greyhound station, bound for the next town and the next cheap motel that advertised low weekly rates and HBO on its flickering sign. This particular town, though, happened to have a coffee shop that was making him want to linger. The decor was college town bohemian, and the coffee beans roasted to just the right balance of full-bodied darkness. The students from the private university tipped well when he brought out the fiddle and began to play, and the shop propped its door open, the better to let the music in and the delicious aroma of the coffee out. And then there was the barista…

Dimo made certain to order from him every time that he went in, the better to unabashedly enjoy watching the way that the barista moved from across the counter. He had a regular drink now, and was in like clockwork at the same time every day, rain or shine. And once or twice, he’d brushed his fingers against the server’s when he was handed his coffee, and been rewarded with more than just the professional smile of a barista. His own fingers, with their chewed and grubby nails, proved an amusing contrast next to the carefully maintained and manicured hands of Maxim the barista, but privately, Dimo thought that he was more artistically dishevelled than anything. And with a good-natured grin, he’d take his coffee and his battered violin case, and set himself up out front to play a couple of sets. It was effortless at this point, and he could do it without thinking, one small difference to an otherwise normal routine that he repeated in each new place he went to.

“The regular?” he was asked before the bell on the door handle had a chance to stop ringing from being jostled. 

He sauntered easily up to the counter and set his instrument case down by his feet as his free hand fumbled about in his vest pocket for his wallet. “The regular,” he said with a nod, keeping his face neutral, trying hard not to betray his plan. Dark roast, black, just like always. He allowed himself to give the handsome barista a playfully admonishing look as he handed over the coffee. “Something’s missing,” he chided, and was given a tight smile that bared a little more teeth than was strictly necessary. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he called out as he stepped outside and began to set up.

The fiddle was tuned soon enough, and after adjusting his position just a hair to the side so that he was sure that he was easily visible from most vantage points in the cafe, he started his first set of the day. He’d chosen the same song or three he typically started with, and people passing by dropped coins and the occasional bill into his case/tip jar, and chuckled at his “Pay me enough, and I might even leave!” sign. Any minute now, Maxim would be sitting down at his usual table, close enough to the counter that he could jump up and help out if need be, but far enough away that it still felt like a break. What was today’s title, he wondered? By squinting, he could see that the novel of today’s interest was Claimed By a Scottish Lord. His favorite barista was just about to crack it open and pull his bookmark out, to pick up where he’d left off.

Perfect. Dimo brought the bow to hover over the strings of his fiddle,playing the first delicate notes of a tango, and with a determined smirk, drew a deep breath and belted out, “ROOOOXXXXAAAANNNNEE!” 

Eye contact. And just as quickly, a roll of the eyes and a sigh as Maxim brought the book up closer to his face in an effort to distract himself. Dimo countered with a waggle of his bushy eyebrows and a saucy wink.

“YOUUUUU DON’T HAVE TO PUT ON THAT RED LIGHT–”

The scowl deepened, and Maxim’s grip on the book grew tighter. Dimo gave him a wink, and motioned with a nod of his head that hey, your part is coming up, you don’t want to miss it, do you? Never mind that they’d never sung together in their lives. Never mind if Maxim had no idea how Dimo knew that he could sing. Maxim glared back, but Dimo noted in triumph that the romance novel, bookmark again in place, had been pushed to the side.

“WALK THE STREETS FOR MONEY, YOU DON’T CARE IF IT’S WRONG OR IF IT IS RIGHT–”

The bells on the door jangled, and Dimo’s grin grew impossibly wide as a second voice, a soaring tenor to his own gravelly baritone, joined his with the next verse. It was a good thing, too, all flirting aside. His own voice had its charm, but this really was a song for two singers, when it came right down to it. 

“ROOOOXXXXAAAANNNNEE! YOU DON’T HAVE TO WEAR THAT DRESS TONIGHT–”

A ghost of a smile as they harmonized, and for a moment, Dimo could have sworn that Maxim might almost forgive him for this later. Almost.

“ROOOOXXXXAAAANNNNEE! YOU DON’T HAVE TO SELL YOUR BODY TO THE NIGHT.”

It was almost effortless now, performing together, and a crowd had begun to gather, listening to them as intently as they watched each other while they sang and Dimo played.

“His eyes upon your face–”

Dimo’s eyes smoldered as he pulled the box across the strings.

“”His hand upon your hand, his lips caress your skin–”

Dimo’s grin grew devilish.

“It’s more than I can stand!”

Dimo’s fingers continued to dance across the strings, through to the finish of the piece. Raising his bow with a flourish, he glanced over at Maxim, who followed his lead as they bowed to their audience. As quickly as he had come to join the busker, though, the barista disappeared back inside–his break was done, and he tried to hide his furious blushing even as both his tip jar and Dimo’s case filled with bills and coins.

“How long have you guys been practicing that? You are going to do it again tomorrow, right?”

“Of course!” Dimo replied to the audience with a sly grin and a nod to the indignant barista. He wanted to be certain that Maxim could hear him, even over the din of the street. “We’ve been planning this for a while.” 

And for the rest of the day till closing, Maxim was reminded by coworker and customer alike that hey, you sounded great together, and I think that busker was checking you out, too! Don’t you think he’s cute? It was all he could do to make it out to the car by himself, and from there to his apartment, all the while grumbling about the fact that yes, he had to admit, the busker was kind of hot.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to hear what you thought! What would you like to see me write more of--smut, fluff, angst? What was your favorite part, or a line that you think I ought to use in the future? Please share--I dearly love feedback. <3


End file.
